King of waffles
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Sean of the South
Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter. We were crammed into the corner, with a front-row view of the chef de cuisine.
The cook loaded the grill with all manner of pork products. Everything was hissing. Pots bubbling. Slabs of meat sizzling. Waffle irons spewing.
It was Christmas night, and we didn’t know where else to go.
It was surprising to see so many people inside on Christmas night. They must have all been weary highway travelers just like us. On their way back from family gatherings which had drained them of their lifeforce, left them with saggy eyes, and little will to live.
Family holiday gatherings can be difficult. Namely, because everyone in your family is completely bat-excrement crazy except you.
A guy wandered into the Waffle House. He was wearing rags. Fingerless gloves. Watch cap. The staff apparently knew him. They called him by nickname.
“Hi, King Charles!” the staff all said.
And the employees all bowed and curtsied.
The king smiled his tooth at them, but said nothing.
The waitress found a place for him at the bar, in a seat beside us. The king grinned at me. I grinned back. I do not believe he had bathed in three, maybe four presidential administrations.
And even though the place was overrun with customers, the waitress took His Majesty’s order before taking anyone else’s.
“Your Highness,” said the waitress. “What’ll it be?”
The old man had a hard time talking. His mouth was moving, but nothing came out.
“Same as usual?” said the waitress.
He nodded.
The knit cap came off to reveal a mass of greasy white hair. He looked at me again, just to make sure I was still there.
The king doctored his coffee, using more creamers than anyone I’ve ever seen. He added enough sugar to cause endocrinologists to break into cold sweats.
Our waitress engaged the man in a one-sided conversation. Every time she asked a question, he would only answer by moving his mouth, but nothing came out.
But the waitress never missed a beat. She would nod affirmatively and she’d keep the one-woman discussion moving along.
Her monologue included all her personal information. She was an open book. She talked about her kids. Her boyfriend. Her car troubles, the auto shop, and the lowdown shyster mechanic who had once been her husband.
The old man listened intently, saying nothing.
Sometimes he laughed in reply. And whenever he laughed, he looked around. Usually, locking eyes with me as though he needed validation that what he was laughing at was indeed worth the effort. So then I’d laugh, too. Even though I wasn’t sure, technically, what we were laughing at.
When the man finished his meal, he dug into his pocket and placed money on the table. Two crumpled twenties.
I could tell we were witnessing a moment because the waitress just looked at the cash.
She said, “I told you, your money’s no good here.”
But the man was insistent. He placed the money into her hands, then clasped his hands around hers. His mouth struggled to form words. He spoke with a pronounced stutter. The words came. And everyone heard them.
“Thank you.”
This time, it was the waitress who had fallen mute.
Because, well, that’s just how you act when in the presence of royalty.
